


Rivalry on Ice

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sports, Gwen/Lancelot - Freeform, Ice Skating, M/M, Rivalry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9662078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Arthur and Merlin are rivals. Merlin and Arthur are figure skaters. Fact is there are two rivals but just only one Olympic gold medal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is in no way a realistic portrayal of figure skating. More fiction than anything else really. Quadruple Axels are not a thing

“Why are we even here?” Arthur asks. “I thought you would have wanted me training.” At the very least he could have lifted some weights or gone for a run, he mentally complains.

Farther glares at him, clamps a hand around Arthur's forearm and forces him to look in the direction of the ice-rink.

“Today you're studying him,” father says in his severe I'm your coach voice. “He'll be in Vancouver in a few months and I'm convinced he'll be your main competition. You need to watch out if you want to win.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, as if he doesn't accept that, but he fixes his gaze on the boy his father pointed to. He's doing preparatory hamstring stretches and looks limber enough, but he's a green, fresh-faced boy with little to no experience under his belt.

Naturally, youth is always a plus in competitive sports, but technique, Arthur reckons, is just as vital.

After a short while Arthur places him, obviously.

Arthur's watched the young man perform before in Tallinn where he ranked fifth in the European Championship and prior to that in Los Angeles where he ranked thirteenth in the short program. Before that, the boy, Arthur thinks derisively to himself, was Junior Gran-Prix fodder.

He doesn't understand why father has picked him as this great potential rival. The young man didn't even make the podium. How old is he? Nineteen?

Arthur snorts aloud. “He's a babe in arms!” He says it dismissively, though he tenses as he watches father's lip curl in a way that bodes no good. “Besides, I thought that's what videos were for.”

“No,” father says, sitting down. “You need to see what he can do and what he can't do with your own eyes. You can replay and analyse his Tallinn free program at your leisure later.” Father sits down on one of the benches reserved for the public. “Arthur, you suffered a serious injury. You need to focus if you intend to win. Your mother won medals by dint of steady application and hard work.”

And how can Arthur stand the comparison or let down his father?

Sighing, he leans over the railing, elbows supporting his chin, and watches as, warm-up seen to, his rival, Merlin Emrys, pushes off and starts gliding across the ice.

At first he merely skates in circles, his blades silent on the fresh, untarnished ice.

The man looks serene and as if nothing can shake him. He tries a few series of steps sequences. He performs three-turns and bracket turns, all of them neatly and gracefully, but then most skaters are graceful or have learnt grace when very young. It's competent, but Arthur doesn't see how this Emrys can be called 'dangerous competition'.

Next, the man slides into a smooth inside edge spiral that makes Arthur think he's got some passion in him. It's easy and more warm-up than a requirement, but he's smiling as he does it, as if he were competing and putting on his game face for the judges, or as if he were enjoying himself.

Slowly his face changes and a mask of concentration replaces the easy smile.

Then Emrys gains speed, benefits from the momentum, takes off from the back outside edge of his skate and is helped into a jump by the toe pick of his other foot.

Arthur watches him execute a perfect triple-toe-loop, triple Lutz combination and has to give it to the man: he's got some technique. He's made it look effortless and beautiful.

Arthur finds himself enjoying this, the easy movements, the elegance. It reminds him of those old tapes father has at home, those videos of his mother that technically he's never been allowed to know the existence of, but that he's studied avidly. She was a natural.

Meanwhile Emrys lands without a glitch and races off on his skates, slows down and erupts into another step sequence: he's now moving from one end of the rink to the opposite one, describing curves as he goes.

He's not following the beat of any music but chasing the rhythm inside his head, and Arthur knows this is but a tiny part of the program he's going to use at the Olympics. There's no guessing now what the final product will be, or what he'll dare do to get a higher score a few months from now.

This is not the choreographed version, certainly, and the boy has variations and aces up his sleeve, Arthur bets, but this is enough to make Arthur understand what his father meant.

Arthur sees Emrys twizzle and hides a grin.

It seems as if Arthur's diverted approval has travelled across the arena because Emrys lifts his head and notices that he's got one very interested spectator.

Arthur reads a smirk on Emrys' lips and watches as the man nods imperceptibly his way, as if he's recognised him – which he probably has since Arthur's the face advertising a few brand sports products and has appeared on TV and placards quite often.

After the sly nod, Emrys speeds up by doing crossovers to prepare for another jump. He glides forward on one foot and by the way the blade is inclined Arthur knows it's going to be an Axel.

Emrys manages three revolutions and a half, and judging by his body motions and the upwards strain, Arthur knows that that was an aborted quadruple jump.

Ambitious boy.

Emrys lands badly, and he breaks his fall by touching his gloved hand to the ground. Recovering, he picks himself up again, but before he starts revolving in circles and gaining momentum he looks up once more.

Arthur thinks he'd been about to try another jump just before that, but he sees something shift in Emrys' face. The boy moves more quickly across the ice and lunges. The lunge turns into a theatrical bow directed at Arthur.

Cheeky. Emrys knows he's being spied upon and has virtually challenged Arthur.

At that something flares inside Arthur that he'd thought dead and gone: his competitive spirit. He wants to compete against this man; wants to prove that he may be a little more seasoned but that he's just as good if not very much better.

He feels something crackle between them as Emrys straightens and smiles at him fully, acknowledging that the game's on.

The air's sizzling with possibilities. Potential.

Arthur claps loudly. They're almost alone, so the sound reverberates.

“See you at the Olympics,” Arthur hollers in a confident tone.

The insouciant, terribly irreverent grin on Emrys' face is something that's going to spur Arthur on in the next few months.

He'll train twice as hard, he vows, just to show this boy, this boy who smiles so cockily, as if he knows he'll get the gold, that Arthur Pendragon is not done for. Leg or no, months of physiotherapy or no, he'll win for his country and for his father and even for himself.

 

****

He's on the ice, practising. Father's checking his every single move, correcting him when he strays from the perfect figures Morgana choreographed.

He studies the way Arthur skates a round circle on a blade's edge and then does the same using the other foot. The aim is perfection. Arthur describes two wide circles with four exact turns, pivoting on his left foot, pushes once, and then again. He repeats the same movement once more and retraces the pattern he's virtually drawing with his body on the other foot.

He does edges, crossovers and three-turns to prepare for what comes next. The jump. He knows he must pull it off; not just because it's an element but because he's always been strong on the technical side and weak when it comes to the artistry of a performance. He's more sheer muscle than crystalline grace and his career has been built on formal flawlessness.

Yet he tenses, and glides around in another circle, doing a backwards crossover.

Not yet. He can't yet.

“Arthur!” father roars, having guessed. “Emrys' jumps are powerful and his landings are almost invariably good. DuLac won the European Championship. You really don't want to hesitate before jumping. You might as well retire!”

Arthur knows that. He does. He knows that this is where his career ends, if he doesn't. In fear. He's betraying himself here. He breathes through his nose.

Unaccountably, he finds himself thinking of that challenging expression on Emrys' face and decides that shot ligaments or not he must make it. It's his duty. He'll do this till his knees don't hold him up any more if necessary. He'll work out till he drops. Emrys would laugh at him if he could have witnessed his hesitation. The decline of a former star.

Decision taken, he glides backward on the back inside edge of his left foot, picks himself up with his other toe, jumps and vaults in the air. He feels good for the first time in ages while doing this, no pain and no constraining fear. A bit like flying. His triple flip is near perfect though the landing needs more work.

Elated, he skates alternately on each foot, taking two or three strokes on each, bends his knees, and digs the edge of his skates into the ice, coming to a slow, practised halt. He cranes his neck to look at father. There's a controlled, encouraging smile on his lips that is ego-boosting.

“It needs more work,” father says.

Arthur is smiling now.

****

The months that follow are made up of endless practising, three to six hours a day spent on the rink five days a week, plus an hour spent at home thrice weekly in his own personal gym.

As a consequence his social life is affected; he probably had friends once upon a time, but now when he's not working out, he's so tired he just wants to flip over and fall asleep wherever he is. The fact that his diet is rigorous doesn't help much either. When someone invites him out for dinner, he has to say, “No, thank you, but deep fried foods are not part of my diet of champions.” Beers and pub crawls are out of the question too.

In short he no longer has a social life; he lives off ambition and sore muscles. Dedication and determination. But he's got the drive to win back; he thinks he's pushed himself past his fears, the only one remaining that of disappointing himself and father.

In his free time he stretches lazily on the sofa, feet on the coffee table to analyse the performances of his main competitors.

The surprise is, more ore less, Emrys himself. The boy has progressed in leaps and bounds in the last two years. He's gone from average to dazzling and he's a pleasure to watch. A rough diamond. Arthur forgets to judge the technical skills and he just stares at his lap-top screen, enthralled. The boy's good. He clearly loves what he does. It's in the way his body courts the music and defies gravity to achieve grace. He's at his best when free-skating.

Arthur doesn't remember that sheer love anymore, so he partly admires Emrys and partly resents him.

Being lazy is not, however, what is going to get him a medal and this time he wants the gold, if it's his last sporting bid for it.

Time passes in a flurry of training, choreographing sessions, stupid ballet sessions and fittings for costumes.

Before he's even had the time to think about it he's on a plane headed to Canada.

He flies to Canada two weeks in advance and takes up residence in a hotel suite till he's slated to move to the Olympic village. He still trains, but he doesn't push it. He doesn't want to injure himself before the main event.

One night, a week before the opening ceremony, he decides it's a good idea to go to a bar and indulge in the Canadian night-life.

Father would have his hide, but Morgana is egging him on, exclaiming, “Arthur, you need to unwind.”

Since he's grown a little bit more nervous everyday, he thinks that Morgana may be right. Despite that he says, “You're seeing things, Morgana. I'm relaxed. I'm going to win this, wait and see.”

He ends up on a balcony private booth, overlooking the bar and dance floor of a random Vancouver club. It's trendy and loud, people flitting about and swirling and twirling on the dance-floor downstairs. There are drunken boys, attractive girls in flashy, revealing tops, and older man trying to chat said young girls up. A mixed crowd.

When Arthur is on his third beer, one girl recognises him and comes up to him. It's a bit unusual since he doesn't meet many fans when he's not in the vicinity of a rink. Figure skating is not as popular as football. He flashes her a smile and signs an autograph, and she promises she'll support him vocally before waving him good-bye.

Morgana smirks. “You could have...”

“Not in the mood,” Arthur hedges, sipping. “She'd have given me a teddy bear for good luck,” he says mockingly. It's been known to happen.

Morgana scrunches up her nose at the implied slur. He'll soon need shots if Morgana teases him further.

He's seriously thinking about getting sloshed when he knows he shouldn't – not the best way to stay hydrated – when he realises someone's hovering behind him. Morgana's eyes dilate a tiny bit in recognition, so Arthur cautiously turns around.

What he sees is certainly not what he would have expected. Merlin Emrys, jeans-clad and bearing a glass of something that must be alcoholic, is standing there grinning at him.

The grin itself looks innocent and out of place here and it's a polar opposite of the defiant look he aimed at Arthur at the rink when they last met.

“Fancy a drink?” Merlin asks, all friendly, open face and stance. Hopeful.

Arthur blinks. He doesn't understand why Emrys would want to buy him a drink, unless... “Why,” he drawls, “do you want to pry into the secrets of my routine? Whether I've totally recovered?” Arthur pauses, takes a drink, smacks his lips too loudly, and adds, “Are you even old enough to buy drinks?”

Emrys glares at him. “No,” he says slowly. “And it was a pre-competition olive branch. Plus, you were the one spying on me, not the other way around,” he says.

Emrys, Arthur has to admit, looks good out of his worn track-suit jumper and gloves; some of his older fans would have said dishy. He's willowy and lean. Up close Arthur sees that he's got blue, blue eyes. Arthur hadn't noticed them before, watching him on video or from afar. Emrys, he decides, would be sort of pretty in his coltish way, if it weren't for his cartoonish big ears: they're quite eye-catching.

“Besides, yeah,” he says, “I'm old enough to drink and to take you apart during the competition,” Merlin answers.

More than slightly tipsy, Arthur rises and crowds him. The liquid in Merlin's glass sloshes out, showering him and his long-sleeved shirt, as the man backs away for a second.

Arthur would have crowed if Emrys hadn't walked right into him next. Brave.

They're chest to chest now, and Arthur can feel Emrys breathing, his chest rising and falling a bit too quickly against his own.

For a weird, insane moment Arthur zones out and zeroes in on the man's lips. They look soft and... Arthur shakes himself.

“Note even in your dreams, Emrys.” Arthur's heard it all before. He's twenty-five and no longer a young promise. Some say the Olympics are going to be his swan-song, that after his injury he's due for retirement as father has been so kind to point out. Yet he won't give up the fight, not to this boy!

“Boys!” Morgana pleads from her seat.

“Oh, I knew you were arrogant from your interviews and such...” Emrys says, "and I've known my fair share of diva skaters, but you're....the worst of them... you're a prat!!

Prat? Arthur gapes. Is that the only insult the boy could devise? Young and innocent indeed. Arthur laughs then, loud and clear. The action confuses Emrys even more.

Still wheezing, Arthur says, “I'm going to eat you for breakfast.”

Merlin doesn't look daunted. Not even a little. He's still invading Arthur's personal space whereas most people would have conceded the field. Arthur's the experienced athlete and Emrys is relatively new and yet he refuses to be bullied.

“We'll see,” Emrys says. He sets the glass he's been holding onto like a trophy on Arthur's table, their elbows brushing, lingers for a second to look Arthur in the eyes, while Arthur feels a surge of something in his body at the fleeting touch and stare, and walks away.

Well, he walks into a scantily dressed girl who eyes him up and down ravenously, strangely clumsy for someone who can look like a dancer on skates.

Arthur pinches his nose and sinks back into his seat, concluding that he shouldn't have drunk and he shouldn't have tried to browbeat Merlin Emrys.

For a second Arthur asks himself what would happen if Merlin were right. If he was the best and Arthur lost to him...

It doesn't even bear thinking about. Winning is about confidence. He brims with confidence – he does. He orders a vodka.

 

****

 

A quarter of an hour before the pre-short program warm-up session, Arthur's slotted for an interview.

The interviewer is pleasant at first, asking him about how it feels to be back at the Olympics, and he even congratulates him on winning his Turin gold medal four years back. A few gossip questions are asked, as is inevitable. Arthur knows how to field them expertly by now, so they hardly register.

“So, Arthur, are you feeling excited?”

“Well, yes, certainly,” he answers. He's polite, as he's meant to be on interview rounds “This is an important event and I'm very glad I had the chance to take part in it.” Arthur won his spot by working hard, but he knows that he shouldn't sound as if he's bragging. Not good publicity.

“Arthur,” the journalist asks in a sympathetic tone, “who do you think are your competitors?”

Before answering, Arthur hums. He doesn't want to start a never-ending needling contest with other skaters. News travel around fast. Besides, he knows how to be chivalric about his sport and how to acknowledge someone else's worth fairly, rivals or no.“I believe Lancelot is an excellent skater and he has proved that back in Estonia, so he's surely someone I need to watch for,” he says amicably, still smiling.

“What about Merlin?” the interviewer presses on. “He's a favourite with the audience because of his charity performances,” the man raises an eyebrow as if he wants to ask Arthur why he doesn't engage in the same type of work, “and the girl fans love him; that said, do you think he has the technical chops to get to the podium?”

The question is couched in a way deliberately designed to give rise to some sort of media palaver.

Arthur could stay calm, but it seems the press is dead set on getting a scoop out of him and in a way that pits him against Merlin in particular.

But why Merlin? Lancelot is the renowned skater and Owain's got two bronze medals under his belt. Why Merlin? Is it just because he's younger than Arthur and he's never injured himself on ice? Is it because they're opposites and that makes for a good story? However that may be, Arthur doesn't appreciate the comparison.

Merlin, ah. Merlin has been haunting him recently, always there. Arthur has had to study his previous performances, then he met him at the bar, Morgana has been ticking him off about how he behaved towards the man and now even the bloody journalist has decided to bring him up. Hot topic.

“He's a young promise,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “He'll get there.” One day, not now, not when Arthur has to prove to himself that he is still what he was. That he's as good as his mother had been. “He does good transitions and he's enjoyable to watch, but he's not ripe yet.” He can't allow Merlin to beat him.

The interviewer is now smiling like a shark and Arthur knows that before the day is over his words will have been twisted in such a way as to sound even worse. Maybe Merlin is right and he is a bit of a prat.

Answer obtained, the journalist wishes him a polite,“Good luck,” shaking his hand in dismissal.

Arthur can't berate himself for having been a little loose tongued, for it's time for the warm-up session itself.

As luck would have it, he's in the same warm-up group as the now omni-present Merlin.

Arthur is confident. The program's father and Gaius engineered is very good if everything goes smoothly and it's performed correctly. It's designed improve his component scores and to be worth enough points to allow him to win, depending on various circumstances and outside factors. He intends to be the best.

Soon after the skaters spill onto the ice.

As they do, Merlin raises a hand to greet him, smiling bashfully. He probably wants to patch things up between them. Arthur looks daggers at him and Merlin can only frown in answer. After a second or two he lowers his head and stares at his own skates. He looks a little bit like a kicked and lost puppy and Arthur feels bad about that for a nano-second.

Next he hears the clapping and realises he has an audience, a cheering audience there to see him. Usually he'd be focused and pumped by this time, focused on the work he has to do, and yet he's still watching Emrys and the way he moves, smiles, functions on the rink and concentrates on warming up for his jumps, spins, footwork and transitions.

It must carry or there's something in the air between them because Merlin turns on his skates and realises he's being observed. It's their first meeting all over again. Emrys grins, gains speed and starts preparing for a jump. He bends his knee as he enters it, kicks mightily forward for such a delicately built man, and he's up into the air as if gravity didn't exist. He rotates three times before landing his Axel perfectly. Even one of the judges notices. Arthur cathces a glimpse of him nodding surrepetitiously.

Arthur won't be let himself be out-performed by a newbie.

 

****

 

_ESPN Commentary:_

_“So, Morgause, what do you think of Merlin Emrys?”_

_“Well, William, he is a lovely skater and he's proved with that first jump that he can be a strong one as well. If he keeps skating like that throughout the competition we could be talking a medal.”_

_“Oh, look at how flawless that is.”_

_“Yes, Arthur Pendragon has always been quite the technician. He seems to have recovered well from his previous injury. Most skaters never make it back.”_

_“Yes, indeed, Morgause, there were rumours as to his career being ended when he was operated on twice, which his coach, Uther Pendragon, the athlete's own father, immediately quashed. It's good to see him in top form as it's highly unlikely he could have another Olympic chance given his age. But look at that! Hasn't Emrys landed a very well executed triple-flip, triple-toe combination!”_

_“He has. Oh, but Pendragon has just executed the same jump there. I don't think that is even part of his program!”_

_“Pendragon's fired up, isn't he? It's good to see that.”_

_“And we get a fantastic triple Lutz out of Emrys. He's put more effort in this warm-up session than in his World Juniors. It's undeniable that he needs a good performance here, but I think he could be a serious rival to both Dulac and Pendragon. Merlin has a young coach, Guinevere Smith, who has really guided him well.--”_

_“Wait, Morgause. That's a perfect triple Axel from Pendragon. I suspect we could be looking at a potential winner here if he carries that onto his short program.”_

_“Indeed. Though I believe we're also witnessing a game of one-upmanship going on between Arthur Pendragon and Merlin Emrys. It looks as though they're challenging each-other. It's remarkable. I've never seen anything of this kind before.”_

_“Well, it's going to be an entertaining spectacle for ESPN viewers and the audience here in Vancouver.”_

 

****

 

Arthur watches his competitors' short program performances from a monitor.

The first scheduled routine is Lancelot's. As Arthur has long known, Lancelot's well-trained. In fact, the Frenchman predictably delivers. He skates to the notes of Danse Macabre and his tight costume and slight make up make him look like like a sad, refined skeleton. He performs with gentle pathos and elegance, as he always does, attracting the cheers of a pleased audience. The ladies invariably swoon over Lancelot. They – they being bloggers and journalists – call him The Poet.

Though it certainly makes for some entertaining, sophisticated watching, Arthur reckons that Lance's jumps might have been a little higher and his transitions smoother.

Grinning to himself, Arthur thinks he can beat good old Lance easily.

He becomes convinced of that when Lancelot visibly stumbles and fumbles a step sequence. In the end Lancelot scores a 89.67, which is very good, and retires smiling warmly.

Owain Knight is a bit of a disappointment, honestly. Even Arthur, who has no reason but to rejoice that a close competitor is doing so poorly, has to cringe for him. He flutzes his Lutz, he cheats on an Axel for which he's sure to get deductions and he's even out of step with the music, a Chopin piano concerto that bores Arthur, and apparently the judges and the auditorium audience, to tears. He gets a sad 56.60 and just like that he will need to give up all podium dreams. However he accepts the result meekly together with a bunch of flowers.

Mordred is good but unremarkable; his technique is appreciable and there are no big mistakes but he leaves the rink, wide-eyed and staring fixedly, scoring a satisfying but not astounding 84.81

Pellinore's is another high score that could worry Arthur, but the truth is that Arthur isn't even watching all that intently anymore. Till Merlin appears.

As soon as Merlin's mop of hair, vaguely combed for the occasion, becomes visible, he receives a standing ovation from the spectators. He bows nicely and he starts a new routine he hadn't used before, not quite like this.

He starts skating to the beat of Die Another Day, coupling a fun, even sexy – he's got on a flowing, half-unlaced white shirt on that makes him look ethereal more than Bondish – performance with outstanding technical achievement.

He incorporates difficult backward variants and the elements he does – flips, Axles, quad toe-loops, sit-spins – are all more than solid. They're near perfect. It's amazing really, how Merlin can combine the fun elements with the serious footwork and technique, but he does and the audience is charmed. As is Arthur.

Arthur is charmed by that body and its sinuous movements, the strength and elegance of it, the way it sways and spins. The way his hips follow the rhythm – the ways his hands court the air, make Arthur want something indescribable.

Out of nowhere Arthur stops thinking of Merlin in terms of his technical merits and tries to picture him and that lanky body of his in an entirely different environment, a brand new setting. On a bed – Arthur's – after all isn't Merlin subtly mimicking sex out there? Though it's neither blatant nor vulgar, it's there in the way his back arches on a layback spin that should look girly but doesn't.

Merlin is undeniably good and he's got the auditorium enchanted.

When he finishes he gets another standing ovation, loud cheers, and a shower of benedictions form rabid fans. The judges award him a jaw-dropping 90.88 and Arthur finds himself smiling, stupidly happy about that. For someone else...

Inexplicably he cheers aloud, “Way to go, Merlin!” and claps. He thanks the stars nobody's around to hear him, but nothing can take a certain kind of satisfaction and elation away from him.

Being the next but two to perform, he decides it's time to warm-up and stretch. He's still looking happy, though he should be anything but, when father appears in the doorway.

“Arthur, you're on in thirteen minutes,” father reminds him.

Arthur stands up to attention. “Yes, I know. I was going to--”

“Arthur, I hope I don't need to remind you how important this is. You won't have another Olympic chance. And even if by some miracle you did...” Father steps closer, places both hands on Arthur's shoulders and looks at him, his eyes boring into him with a cold deliberation that doesn't make Arthur flinch only because he's so used to it.

“We've worked towards this goal all your life, Arthur. It was your mother's dream to get consecutive medals at the Olympics and she never could.”

Father's face clouds over dramatically; a vein in his forehead starts throbbing. Father never speaks about mother and the fact that he's doing so now reveals how important this is to him. “Don't betray that hope,” father concludes, squeezing his shoulders in a way that is painful.

Arthur has no words. He bobs his head, signalling understanding.

“I think you get me, Arthur. Don't spoil your big chance.” Father lets him go then.

Discussion over, Arthur is warned that it is his turn to perform.

When he glides onto the rink he makes an effort to tune out the audience and the judges. He knows he's not catering to them by way of big smiles or half bows, but his are performances, not exhibitions. They're pure sport and he concentrates by erasing all thoughts of others.

 

Even so his heart is beating way too fast and he's sweating more than the air temperature should warrant. This is an out of the world experience and the reason he keeps coming back to the rink over and over again, despite the pain of abused limbs that won't just behave and the fear and the nervous strain. He feels alive like this, body thrumming in anticipation.

Nothing quite compares.

Then the music starts playing and his body remembers the moves, muscle memory coming to his aid as he kicks into action.

Yet he can't forget father's words. They're dancing before his mind's eye just as his body follows the rhythm of a tango. He knows he's in tune with the music and his first jump and the transition linking to the next one are perfect.

Trying to retain his concentration, Arthur's not looking at either father or the auditorium's audience. The more he focuses on his feet, his muscles, and the choreography though, the more he realises that this is different.

He can still control his spins and his lunges, but he's caught in a virtual loop. Last chance, last  
chance, the voice in his head reminds him traitorously.

There's no doing it over again.

He's doing a backward crossover when he lifts his head and spies his father, his pinched face and worried expression.

Father's shaking his head, though there's nothing wrong with what Arthur's doing, Arthur knows. He's shaking his head because he's sure this is where Arthur falls short and betrays all expectations, his, his mother's – if she could have known.

Arthur clears his mind of all thought – tries to. He tries so hard. He approaches the jump from a right back outside edge. Shifts to a forward outside and left edge, athletically vaulting over the toe pick of his other foot. He's turning in the air, arms crossed over his chest and it'd be exhilarating but for the thing in his chest that squeezes and makes his vision go grey.

Panic. Blind, stupid panic. So something goes wrong and he stumbles his landing; positively falls. There's a general “Ooh” to comment his disgrace.

He picks himself up quickly, some fifty seconds left to his program, but he heard the audience gasp and he knows they know what it means. He's bungled it and, what's more, his knee hurts a little right now.

He skates the last few minutes fighting both rage and pain. He finishes with a flourish and pastes on a cold smile on his face.

Feeling defeated and depleted, he makes his way to the edge of the rink and waits for his marks.

He's breathless and can't wait for them to finish computing, though he'd like them not to. As the computer does its work, he's approached by someone from behind the boardings. Astoundingly it's not father's reproving figure: it's Merlin.

“What happened?” he asks under his breath. He's changed from his costume and into a green track suit. “You nailed that jump in the warm-up session. You could have eaten me for breakfast, as you, oh so gently put it!”

“Nothing happened,” Arthur says.

“That's not true." Merlin looks like he's not about to be fooled.

Arthur shakes his head, annoyed, but before he can say anything else or curse Merlin Emrys for his attempt at sympathy, the marks are up.

It's 86.95. He'll end up fourth or fifth, depending on others' scores. He punches the boarding for all the world to see.

**** 

 

He's in his room at the Olympic Village.

It's past eleven and he can't sleep though he's turned off the lights and done his utmost to forget today. He has declared his TV and lap-top public enemies, mocking him from afar with accounts of how he failed.

After an afternoon spent listening to father's rants about concentration and how he has committed career suicide, he would very much like to drink himself into a stupor.

Knowing that he can't because the free-skating program is in two days just puts another damper to the evening as well as his spirits. Why is he even doing all this, he asks himself raking his hand through his sweaty hair.

Thinking in circles is no help either. He sees the jump in his mind's eye, locates the mistake and yet that's no use because he can't go back and change the way things went.

He's startled out of his undignified reverie by a knock on the door. He stays put at the foot of his bed where he's been sitting for the past few hours even though he's heard it loud and clear.

It's either father back for another reprimand or Morgana trying to console him.

Unrepentantly there's another knock that elicits no reaction on his part.

He's about to shout obscenities when he hears his voice. “Come on, open up!” and the magical, “I've got beers.”

Only because of that, Arthur crosses the room and flings the door open, leaning against it and barring all access.

Merlin is smiling and making an offering of two cans.

“That all?” he says. “Two beers?”

“Yep, sorry.”

Arthur makes as if to grab them.

“No way,” Merlin says, dancing out of his reach and hugging the cans to his chest. “This is a bribe. You have to let me in.”

“I thought you'd be out celebrating,” Arthur tells him, though he steps aside to let Merlin in.

Merlin waltzes in with a bounce to his step. Oblivious to Arthur's crabby mood, he sets the beers on the desk that supports the TV set and proceeds to open the first can.

“No, you'll spray all ov--” Too late. Beer foam's sprayed all over. “The way you shook that can! It was rather obvious!”

“Sorry!” Merlin smiles sheepishly. He moves to the bathroom and mops it all up, disposing of the mess he created almost efficiently.

“You're a bit of a whirlwind,” Arthur teases him from where he's gone to perch on his bed.

Merlin bites his lip, grins mischievously and nods showily.

“But the question still stands. You rose to first position today. You're a big boy now,” Arthur says, a subtle note of envy not easily suppressed.

Merlin isn't smiling anymore. He comes to sit in front of Arthur, facing the headboard. He's got one knee planted on the bed, and a foot on the floor, as if he were trying to keep to the Hayes' code. He levels his stare at those graceful hands of his, picking at imaginary loose threads in his jeans' fabric.

“I shouldn't have. That's because you,” he says.

And Arthur knows where he's going with this, that he means to be generous. Arthur doesn't want anybody's pity. Not even this boy's, not even if he means it. “I made a mistake. You didn't. That's how it goes.”

“Oh, but it isn't,” Merlin protests vehemently. “You just lost your.... I don't know. But you weren't there. I mean in person you were but what counts wasn't. Not really. Even before the stumble. It was... cold.”

“Haven't you read the papers? Even at my best that's what I do. Perform the required elements in a technically satisfying way.”

Merlin laughs. “Not true either. You think I don't know who you are. How you skate? I was in the Juniors and my old coach used to make me watch you on video, on loop. He said you were the best there ever was. And I've always agreed. I have DVDs of you. You're the--”

Arthur chuckles and lies back against the headboard. “Hey, you're making me sound old, you babe in arms. Five years from now you'll be where I am.”

“Point is,” Merlin says, intent on making his point. “I've watched you and I know that you're more than execution. You loved it. Skating. I'm sure you used to and I thought you lost it today because of something else.”

There's an awkward pause: Merlin's twiddling his thumbs nervously. “Was it something I did?”

Arthur sees momentarily red. He leans forward on his hands, splayed flat over the space between his legs. He's nose to nose with Merlin, so close that he can smell his shampoo, and his skin, so close he can nearly count the pores on his nose, and observe the way his eyes dilate and his eyelashes flutter. “Don't flatter yourself!”

“I'm not flatter--.” Merlin looks up. “Actually I was quite surprised to see that you of all people, the prince of the rink, had decided to see what I was up to. When we met. I was...er, flattered.”

And just like that, softly and unaffectedly, Merlin leans forward as well, bridging the gap between their lips.

Arthur is stunned into a kiss he's not even sure is a kiss.

It's a tentative touch of lips that steals his breath away and ends too soon.

Arthur feels a thrill run down his spine though. Despite the fact that this boy represents his downfall, Arthur suddenly wants him with a passion that he's been lacking for a long time.

He presses forward once more to snatch one more kiss, see where this goes, to coax that mouth open, but Merlin places his fingers on Arthur's semi parted lips and whispers, “I want to take you somewhere tonight.”

“What?” Arthur'd thought Merlin wanted... something else. “It's late!”

“Come with me,” Merlin says.

“That is what I was planning to do!”

“Not that way, prat, come with me and bring your skates.”

 

****

 

Merlin makes a big mystery of it, till they drive to an out of town skating rink that, according to Merlin, will be open just for them.

“Friends of mine,” Merlin says.

And then Arthur is sitting on a locker bench, lacing his skates, making sure the first eyelets are loose enough, so that he can wriggle his toes comfortably.

Merlin has his own on already: he had them packed in his car boot.

When Arthur's done lacing up, Merlin extends a hand to him and Arthur, strangely, takes it.

He lets himself be led. And Merlin leads him onto a suburban, deserted rink, skating backwards and inciting Arthur onwards, tugging on his hands, hands he clasps almost reverently.

“What are we doing?” Arthur asks.

“Skating.” Merlin's smile is pure and vibrant.

“It's past midnight.”

Merlin shrugs.

“But what-- ”

“I want to pair-skate with you,” Merlin says, blushing furiously.

“You don't want to lift me, do you?” asks Arthur. “It'd throw your back forever.”

Merlin shakes his head, the blush still firmly in place, reaching to his neck now.

Arthur is not even paying attention to his own words anymore. He's stopped caring that this is foolish and strange. He's stopped reminding himself that he should be courting sleep in his bed now and not... Merlin. But he feels some kind of affection budding in his chest for this man, this naïve, open, shy, cocky, young man, who's on his way to winning and yet stops and thinks of... Arthur Pendragon, who's done nothing to gain his loyalty or friendship.

“Okay,” Arthur says, though he knows he's mostly good for solo performances and though he remembers that the few times he skated with a partner for a show or event his execution had left something to be desired.

Realising that his performance is not going to be judged, that he's here for fun, for kicks, makes him nod subtly. And his heart his drumming faster and he feels some kind of exhilaration that is new and surprising and he isn't sure whether it's there because of Merlin or the possibility of skating unfettered and making this about joy and movement and not about marks and scores.

And when they do move, they're chasing each other across the ice, laughing, spinning side by side.

They do fall out of step from time to time, since this wasn't choreographed, but it's surprising how they can move in unison too, how they can find each other's timing.

They jump side by side, landing at the same time and they're both hooting, grinning, laughing. They race across the ice, meet in the middle and triple flip together.

They're skating as one.

The speed of it is heady and the fact that they're reading each other makes for a subtle kind of intimacy that Arthur has never experienced before. Not anywhere.

Watching him, predicting what he's going to do, the way he's going to order his body to shift is making Arthur aware of Merlin in a way that is almost too – too intimate, too much. It feels as if he's learning the man alongside with the body.

When they meet once again in the middle, Arthur extends a hand and winks, “Come on!”

“You're too used to convention!” Merlin says. 

“You're as light as a girl!”

And Merlin rolls his eyes and takes his hand.

Arthur makes a pivot of himself, anchoring a toe in the ice to get stable, still clutching Merlin's hand in a death grip. The last thing Arthur wants is to harm him and this, above all else, requires trust. If he drops him, injury is a sure thing.

And Merlin's risking his Olympic performance on a lark, confiding in Arthur's honesty, that he won't use this vulnerability to his advantage.

As if it were easy, Merlin circles round him, keeping his body parallel with the ice and he's spinning around him fast, so fast, in an honest to God forward-outside death spiral Arthur has never tried before.

When Merlin rights himself and they slow down, digging their toes in, they're laughing. “It's about fun,” Merlin tells him.

And he looks so happy, real and just plain gorgeous, high colour on his cheeks and hair an endearing, dishevelled mess, that Arthur crushes Merlin to him and kisses his mouth open, burying his fingers in his stupid hair.

The first tongue touch is nothing but tip to tip grazing, but Merlin opens up to him, letting his tongue caress Arthur's.

If it's timid at first, soon they're chasing one another's tongue around their mouths as they had each other across the ice.

Making it languorous and softer, Arthur deliberately slows down the movement of his tongue. He ever so slowly moves his head apart, presses his tingling lips against Merlin's one more time, not yet sated enough, and looks into his eyes with a wide smile on his own lips. “Spend the night with me?”

 

****

 

Merlin backs him up flat against the wall between his room and the bathroom – Arthur's head producing a dull thud when it impacts against the boring, white-washed plaster – and kisses him hungrily, his tongue playing dirty havoc in Arthur's mouth.

He bites insouciantly, feeling Arthur's lips with his tongue and grinning into the kiss, before diving in deeply again, in a filthily unrepentant way.

It's hot, moist, thrilling. As thrilling as a competition. As thrilling as soaring up into the air.

Drawing away, arms still firmly wrapped around the span of Merlin's waist, Arthur pants, “Bed, bed. We can continue this in bed.”

“Now you're in a hurry?”

To prove that he's not impatient and not a teenager, Arthur takes Merlin's upper lip between his own, gentling it down.

He pulls back, grins, having proven his point and tries again, showering kisses on Merlin's parted, wet lips. His are kisses that won't get deeper. They're almost chaste, if they weren't a prelude to something else.

Getting the message and objecting to the gist of it, Merlin shoves a leg between his, pulls back and bites down on Arthur's Adam's apple, pressing the palms of his hands, with their spindly fingers, flat against the wall.

When Merlin's teeth close over his skin, nipping, Arthur keens. When Merlin starts sucking on his neck, Arthur finds himself riding Merlin's bony knee, pushing against him, seeking pressure, friction, the dull ache in his groin firing him up and making him so hard it hurts.

“Bed, you bloody vampire,” Arthur says, winded already, as he looks up at the ceiling with a fake put-upon air.

And then they're dancing towards the bed, mutually undressing each other.

Merlin unbuttons Arthur's shirt, letting it fall to the floor. For his part Arthur pulls Merlin's jumper over his head, tousling his hair when he's done and rubbing his knuckles into the scalp just because he can and Merlin looks so young and carefree – practically an imp – that Arthur feels it's due.

He pauses, though, to cup the side of Merlin's flushed neck, noting how warm it is, and pulls Merlin up against him, feeling his naked chest.

They have different builds and Merlin is a little bit taller, but they match and click.

Blush spreading, Merlin tilts his head into the touch, and Arthur uses the angle to plant his lips on that neck, kissing and licking and running his teeth down a tendon, as his fingers trail up and down Merlin's right arm, softly, just the pads.

Arthur's heart warms when he sees the blush and it becomes a few sizes too big as though it doesn't want to fit into his chest anymore.

Meanwhile Merlin, wasting no time, blindly goes for Arthur's zip – he's got his eyes closed – and pulls it down. He palms Arthur's erection through his boxers and Arthur groans into Merlin's throat.

The palm of Merlin's hand kneads him and Arthur scratches Merlin's shoulder, bites, tries not to be loud, panting open-mouthed into Merlin's skin just as his hips start moving to meet the hand in a frenzied rocking that would be embarrassing if he cared about things like that.

His breathing gets more ragged and syncopated accordingly.

No questions asked, fingers sneaking past his waistband, Merlin grabs him, fingers hot on Arthur's even hotter skin.

Arthur's been hungering for this, so much so that breath gets caught in his dry throat as if he's been punched right into the solar plexus.

He would want this to last forever and yet he also wants to uncover more skin, to see Merlin's body without the impediment of clothes. He has imagined how he would look like, but he can see the real thing now and he will.

He walks Merlin towards the bed, though Merlin doesn't let go of him, and with a mighty effort of will he bats his hands away and pushes him onto it.

Merlin lands gracelessly. Laughing, he props himself up on his elbows, naked to the waist, and shakes his head.

He's quite something like that, his body nice to contemplate, rail thin and imperfect, but attractive in ways that go beyond the geometry of limbs and planes and angles.

To help with the undressing process, Merlin kicks off his trainers, revealing white woollen socks. He arches an eyebrow provokingly, urging Arthur to take action, the imp re-emerging.

Despite his obvious, painful arousal, Arthur feels his heart beat out of rhythm at sight of that.

It's stupid and inconsequential and human and... Merlin. Merlin, who's now looking at him from under his lashes, questioning why Arthur has paused, probably thinking he's done something wrong, because Merlin has bravado, Arthur's learnt that, but he's also not as sure of himself as he says he is.

He's a confusing boy that way, self-assured one moment and putting his foot in his mouth the next.

A little reverently, Arthur sinks on his knees between Merlin's half open legs.

Thinking his fingers too rough and disobedient, he pulls the offending socks off, while Merlin wiggles his toes to make him smile.

Arthur drags his fingers over one ankle, then the other one. There are bruises scattered over the ankle-bone from where the skates were laced too tight. The tickling, however, makes Merlin squirm.

Straightening, Arthur goes for Merlin's jeans.

“Lift up,” Arthur says, voice a little choked, unbuttoning them slowly and peeling them off Merlin's legs together with his underwear, just as Merlin's cock slaps a little wetly against his flat belly.

Merlin scoots back on the bed, thrashing it already, and Arthur crawls after him.

When Arthur kisses his way up his legs, Merlin throws his head back.

Rubbing his chin against Merlin's thigh so that the skin there gets redder, Arthur hungrily mouths his way up, tracing a hipbone with his lips, takes a detour, and kisses the navel, just a ghost of a touch.

Planting both knees wide on the bed, Merlin reaches for him almost drunkenly, clamping a hand around Arthur's forearm and pulling him down over him.

Dazedly, Arthur goes to steal another kiss, another taste, and he does steal loads of those, till Merlin uses his confusion to somehow flip them by way of wrapping his legs round Arthur's waist and twisting.

“Point deduction,” Arthur says. “That's cheating!”

“It isn't. There's no rule that says Arthur Pendragon shall always top!”

“But I like that! I like winning!”

And Merlin's there panting and grinning like a loon, looking both clownish and desirable, and Arthur's breathing catches once more.

To be precise, Arthur's throat tightens, his head feels woozy and it's not because of the sudden caper.

To get at more skin, he strains upwards, biting a line of little points, following Merlin jutting collarbones.

Evidently liking it, Merlin rocks down on him, slotting them together. Arthur wraps an arm around his waist.

“Let me get out of my trousers, okay?” he pants wetly into the shell of Merlin's ear.

Merlin nods and climbs off him as Arthur quickly disposes of his last items of clothing.

Once naked, he moves on his hands and knees, mattress dipping under his weight, grabs Merlin by a calf and drags him down, upsetting the duvet further. As Arthur straddles him, Merlin squeals.

“Undignified!” Arthur says, taking them both in hand, rubbing himself off on Merlin and letting Merlin grind up against him.

They're touching almost everywhere like this, lying naked and flush against each other.

Arthur can feel Merlin's ribcage rise and fall under him, sweat-soaked skin sliding over equally sweaty skin, the angles of their bodies meeting.

As Arthur licks the hollow of his throat, he can smell Merlin's arousal, and under that his very own scent.

Merlin's furnace hot, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and body heat where their legs tangle and their sleek bellies graze.

Soon they're close and Arthur slows down, pressing Merlin's sides with the open palms of his hands.

“Let me. Let me. Let me,” he mumbles incoherently against Merlin shoulder.

Merlin cards his hand through his hair, swipes it back from where it's falling messily over Arthur's forehead, and moves his head in a gesture that is a fumbled nod, all serious.

“Okay, okay.”

The feel of a spit wet finger pressing inside him makes Merlin cant his hips towards Arthur.

The way Merlin moves, arches and writhes is erotic in a way that is totally different from what others see when he's out there performing. This is uncontrolled, wilder. For Arthur. Arthur's own domain now.

Drunk on him, Arthur slides down the messed-up sheets, taking the time to nuzzle the inside of Merlin's leg – muscles straining and cording there, tight for the pleasure of this – before crooking his finger.

Merlin's breath hitches.

Daring, Arthur looks for the same spot again; he's rewarded with a noise that is drowned into a bitten fist.

Working him open with more than one finger – watching him respond and lead and follow as he did on the ice becomes easy.

It's exciting, having him there at Arthur's mercy, no quarter asked, pleasure given and returned.

When they're too impatient to wait any longer and Merlin seems enough at ease, they fumble for condoms.

Hurriedly, Merlin tears open the packet of one he found in his wallet and slips it over Arthur's cock, fingers sliding and pressing as he does.

Arthur has to gasp like a stranded fish and count to ten before he's sure he's not going to come there and then.

And then he drives inside, feeling the resistance give, and stills, not letting himself ram in till Merlin has adjusted. And Merlin has him in a death grip, strong fingers digging in his sides, painfully so.

His first deep thrust causes those same fingers to scramble for purchase and slip lower to palm Arthur's arse, driving him forward insistently.

“Good?” Arthur rasps, pulling him tight against him, kissing both of Merlin's cheekbones, his eyelids, his throat repeatedly, a shower of ill-aimed kisses, bestowed as he rocks inside him, seeking out a rhythm that Merlin likes and there, there it is, and the sensation is so intense Arthur can hardly believe it.

He'd always thought sex wasn't quite so exhilarating.

As he ought to be considering his profession, Merlin's limber so that he can hook a leg over Arthur's shoulder quite easily, arching and thrashing underneath him.

The pleasure rises like a tide, building up incrementally till it's all too much. And yet Arthur drags it out, licking into Merlin's mouth though his back is flexing and stuttering in a way that is not his to command anymore.

When he knows he won't last much longer, he reaches a hand between them and strokes Merlin into orgasm. Arthur watches him as his eyes go wild, his body jerks, his cock throbs and he spills in a few more feeble spurts.

When Arthur can't kiss or do anything coherent anymore, when it feels like he's imploding as waves of intense pleasure ripple through every fibre of his body like static, he bites on Merlin's chin.

Then it's too late: his muscles contract rhythmically, something uncoils low in his belly though he's feeling it everywhere, and he comes, still mouthing Merlin's jaw.

He shivers uncontrollably, as though he feels cold when he doesn't for he's burning up, and collapses over Merlin, arms and elbows not committing to the effort of holding him up.

“Sleep,” Merlin says.

It's not clear whether he means that Arthur should sleep or whether he himself wants to. The mystery seems to be cleared when he presses his lips on top of Arthur's head, as though it's a benediction, dislodges him and rolls onto his side, muttering words that are not real words.

By the time Arthur has disposed of the condom and cleaned him up with a wet flannel, Merlin's sleeping the sleep of the just.

Arthur has a shower and follows him to bed.

 

****

 

The morning after they wake and realise they're too late for breakfast so they have fumbling, sleepy sex that is slow but satisfying nonetheless.

It begins with Arthur playing possum for as long as he can, snoring in a phoney way as he stays stretched on his side.

He keeps his eyes closed, though he scrunches them up as Merlin kisses his shoulders and neck; he keeps them closed as Merlin runs his deft hands down Arthur's arms and when those hands rest on his hips.

He gasps when Merlin opens him carefully with oily fingers, stretching him, and even if he's breathing more quickly than normal, he says nothing.

When Merlin nudges a leg between his, Arthur's suppressing a grin, burying his nose in the pillow so Merlin won't see.

“Arthur!”

Nothing happens.

“Okay, then I won't.”

Arthur's fingers twine themselves with Merlin's tapered ones, trapping the hand that wanted to slip away from his flank but a moment ago. He smiles into the pillow fully.

And Merlin, Merlin is his this morning.

Later, when they're clean after a long shared shower and still hiding in bed, Arthur asks, “Why did you choose skating?”

Merlin grins up at him. “I didn't!” He flips onto his back and stares dreamily upward.

“Don't tell me skating chose you.” Arthur snorts. He's heard enough platitudes to last him a lifetime.

Merlin moves his head from side to side on the pillow. “No, I was a very clumsy boy.”

“Still are.”

“Shut up,” Merlin says, thwacking him over the head with his pillow. “My mum took the suggestion of my paediatrician to heart. 'Sports are good to acquire motor-skills,' he said. Scary man... So my mum decided that the drive to the local rink was worth the effort.”

“She embarked on a crusade to teach Merlin's flailing limbs what coordination is,” Arthur jokes, biting Merlin's pointy elbow.

“Yes. No!" Merlin turns so he's resting on his side again in a way that allows them to face each other.

“Well, I landed on my bum more than once and I was about to give up, when...I don't know. I learnt the basic skills and then I learnt that if I pushed it, I could do more things and I felt sort of....”

“Alive?” Arthur guesses.

“Yeah, but I was six then. I decided it made me happy.”

Arthur produces a rumbled species of noise deep in his throat; it could have been called purring by some but he would be ready to swear it was nothing closely related to that. It's more of a subdued chuckle. “You haven't asked why I skate,” he reflects.

Merlin's brow creases. “I thought--” He hesitates briefly, swallows, fixes his gaze on the one hand of his that lies palm down on the sheet in the space between them and ploughs on, “Your mum was a famous champion, wasn't she? I thought you.. Articles say you wanted to follow in her footsteps.”

The laugh forced out of Arthur's throat is raw and bitter and Merlin flinches at the sound.

“No, that's the sob story my father gabbed to the papers.”

Merlin's eyes get wider and he immediately opens his mouth to speak, ever rash, but Arthur stops him before he can question what he means. “My mother was a great athlete. She had but one great goal. She was dedicated in a way I don't believe I've ever been. Anyway I've met people who knew her before I was born. Gaius, my choreographer, is one such person. Well, he used to coach her. And you might have heard of Nimueh, a friend of hers...” he trails off, waiting for a cue from Merlin signalling that he does indeed remember the names of the great skaters of a couple of decades ago. “She revealed the rest.”

Arthur's throat is parched. He wets his lips but he has no spit.

He doesn't know why he's confessing all of this, but Merlin is showing signs of patience and understanding, and he's never told anyone – not even father.

Nobody knows he's spent years collecting data about a woman long gone.

Arthur clears his throat.

“Nimueh said my mother – see, my mother fell in love with my father and married him. If you get a hold of one of the old tabloids, you'll see theirs was a passionate romance, no hiding that. Anyway she didn't want children till her career was over. Father agreed, but years passed and she put it off and he wanted a child. Don't even know why since he's not the most fatherly of men,” Arthur croaks.

The little finger of Merlin's hand nudges his, and Arthur finds the will to take this weight off his chest. He needs to if he's to skate and win. “He wanted a child and mother gave in. She'd qualified for the Olympics but she had nearly two years before the event. She decided to risk a pregnancy. I think, she was hoping to get back to the rink soon after delivering. She wanted to participate so much. Nimueh kindly showed me the letters,” he spits sarcastically.

He remembers his mother's words, her enthusiasm and hopes. He knows what he's taken from her by virtue of merely existing. What he's done to her.

“She died?” Merlin finishes for him.

“Yes, in childbirth,” says Arthur, as if it doesn't touch him, closing his eyes. “I was the reason she died and the reason she didn't get that second medal.”

Merlin leans up, bracing himself on an extended arm. “So you want to win two consecutive ones because of her. To get the medal she never won.”

Arthur doesn't wish to contradict Merlin. One explanation is as good as the other and Merlin's so green and innocent, that it's really the best one to give him without offering an insight into things the boy's better off ignoring till he can.

Arthur opens his eyes and peers at Merlin's face. He's looking down at his hand, jaw clenched. It looks as though he's thinking furiously, he's got such a determined expression on his face.

It hits like a bolt. “Oh, no” Arthur thunders, cupping Merlin's chin and turning his head so that the idiot can see that Arthur's serious. “You're not throwing the game or deliberately making a mistake that looks innocent.”

Silence.

“You hear me, Merlin!”

Merlin is still wearing this dogged, self-sacrificing expression on his face.

After a while he meets Arthur's eyes and he says pleadingly. “I'm younger. I'll get another...”

The fingers grabbing Merlin's chin squeeze.

“You don't know that!" Arthur shouts. “My mother is proof of that. Besides I have honour and I refuse to win like that. Tomorrow – tomorrow you go out there and skate to the best of your abilities till you stun us all. Get it?”

Merlin opens his mouth to object, the giant idiot. God, but he's … God but Arthur is... His heart stumbles in his chest and then rockets skyward because what Merlin's ready to do for him there, giving his future up... It's noble and unheard of and strikingly stupid and God.

Arthur cups his cheek with his hand, tracing the awkward and sharp lines of Merlin's face and jaw with his thumb.

“I refuse to win like that.”

He lets Merlin mull this over and then he spells it out once more. “I don't want to win if I know you've decided to take a dive. If I win, it's by the rules and fairly and squarely and if I suspect – even for a moment – that you're not giving your best,” Arthur pauses, swallows because this costs him, and he doesn't want to say it. “It's over between us.”

 

****

 

That afternoon, before they go out running, Merlin says, “If you want to beat me,” and he is grinning like the loon he is, “you'd better land a quad Axel.”

Merlin has not touched the sore subject of their up and coming ice 'duel' since this morning and it seems as though he's ruminated about it and drawn the conclusion that Arthur would only want to win if he deserved it. Good boy.

At least Arthur hopes Merlin has understood how important this is for him, but he is tired of thinking about tomorrow and doesn't want to proffer threats; besides Merlin is being his own vivacious, friendly self so that Arthur chooses to take Merlin's statement as the boyish challenge it's supposed to be and not as a lie.

Arthur can only wish Merlin will know to do the right thing.

Without that Arthur just couldn't trust him. Without trust he can't have him.

As a consequence, Arthur splutters lightly, “Nobody ever has in competition!” and he kisses Merlin because defiant, assertive Merlin makes Arthur want to kiss him silly.

This, the confidence it takes to look a former champion in the eyes and say, “I can beat you,” is what fascinates Arthur about Merlin.

Curious, he asks, “Tell me, do you want to win?”

Merlin fidgets for a few moments, but he maintains eye contact. “I want to win.” He looks determined then, hands balled into fists. “I want the recognition... I want the judges to tell me that I'm no longer the boy who fell and fell.” His face warms all over.

Arthur tilts his head and takes him in. “As things stand now, I'm likely to end up second or third even if I execute my routine as perfectly as can be, so watch out for Lance.”

Merlin gives him a bashful grin. “Is that your official tip, then?”

“It is.”

“Mine is,” Merlin says, rocking on the balls of his feet as if he's about to jump, “Go and perform that miracle; change it up. Dare.”

Feeling the need to touch, Arthur pats Merlin's shoulder.

Later it starts raining but they do go running so they can train together without going their separate ways yet.

As it turns out, Merlin is quicker than Arthur is. He keeps jogging forth, stopping to tease, turning and running backwards, as he tells Arthur he's out of shape and, “Come on, old man, another half mile.”

Arthur shouts, “I'll give you the old man,” sprints forward and overtakes Merlin just to make a point. He is fit. And only six years older.

When they stop they kiss, fleetingly, since they're in public and this has the makings of a neat and juicy gossip report: famous skaters caught smooching.

He can envision the titles and being a private person, he doesn't look forward to reading them.

There's also the tiny fact that father doesn't know and would draw and quarter him, if he learnt that he got this friendly with a rival. Merlin makes him want to do bold things though, like ignoring father and the fit he'd have if he saw them now.

Merlin and his stupidly endearing face, the fact that the exertion brings colour to his cheeks in a way that reminds Arthur of their bedroom antics the night before have made it all possible.

Panting, Arthur says, “Okay, maybe...” He's going to suggest they go back to one of their rooms.

“I have to meet Gwen: pep talk,” Merlin says.

Arthur takes a step back but keeps hovering close, almost too close for this to be a casual conversation, an encounter between acquaintances. He wants to lean in and let his lips brush Merlin's jaw.

“Strategising, uhm?” he asks instead, and since it's raining harder than before he pulls up the hood of Merlin's jumper to make sure he doesn't get soaked.

They've sought refuge under a tree, but better safe than sorry. “If I'm going to beat you, I'm going to beat you when you're at your best,” he declares a little haughtily, in his best I'm Arthur Pendragon, Olympic champion tone.

He fiddles with the little strings of Merlin's hoodie while he babbles on, “I watched you, you know. On video. I know how you move... – on ice, how you move on ice –" he specifies, feeling awkwardly hot about the face. “And there is this thing you used to do when approaching Axels,” he says, sorting out his thoughts and almost unconsciously mimicking the action by bringing his own feet into play.

“You tend to skid the forward take-off edge of your skate a little more than necessary rather than jumping directly off a clean edge. And if you do that, then you may end up turning in the air too soon or, God forbid, you could take off the back of your blade and … you used to do that and I haven't seen it here in Canada, but you were sort of almost about to do it when we first met and your blade needs a grip.”

Merlin walks into his arms and kisses him, quick and deep and dirty.

When he's done ravishing Arthur's mouth he grins, without stepping back. Mouth to mouth he murmurs, “I know that. I know that.”

One more kiss, open mouthed and attention catching if anyone should pass by – thanks to the rain nobody does – and then he adds reluctantly, as though he doesn't want to tear himself away, “Gwen's gonna seriously, seriously kill me...” He touches his lips to Arthur's. “No, really she has a date with Lancelot,” he defends.

“Your coach goes out with Lancelot Du Lac, aka your rival?”

Merlin nods. “Yes, they're engaged and she can juggle both things and be loyal to me. She's totally professional and my friend.”

Arthur considers whether that is possible, not to root for your life partner, but then he convinces himself that it is. Merlin is no fool, naïve air notwithstanding, and he would not risk his whole career if he didn't trust his coach.”

Arthur brushes his thumbs against the palm of Merlin's hand and says, “Okay.”

The fingers of Merlin's free hand stroke Arthur's hair and then he steps back, making the gesture abrupt, like tearing off a plaster sticking to sore skin. He's off at a jog before Arthur can voice his opinion about the abrupt parting.

“See you tomorrow,” Merlin calls out, waiving his hand and running with his neck tipped down so he doesn't get rain into his eyes.

Arthur doesn't wish him good-bye. “Don't over-rotate,” he shouts.

 

****

 

The day the long program is scheduled for arrives.

Arthur is nervous as he's never been before. It's make it or break it day.

Too proud to do otherwise, he controls his expressions and his body language so that he doesn't give that little secret away.

Outwardly he exudes confidence from all his pores. Even father seems pleased in his quiet pat on the shoulder and small smile that doesn't reach the eyes way.

Arthur answers journalists' questions about his Olympic expectations and his future prospects, he passes arrogant comments on Mordred's style and bows to admirers he catches sight of.

When one sports columnist asks him whether he's agitated he replies, “I don't get nervous.”

Well, he can bluster his way through this day as the best of them, better even.

He tries to meet Merlin's eyes before the warm-up session, but he manages to do so only a few scant moments before Merlin's name's called for his group warm-up.

His coach, the famous Gwen, has abducted her charge and spent the time between lunch and the present moment alternately drilling and hugging Merlin.

Different coaching strategies for different folk, Arthur wagers. However much he tries, he can't really picture father acting in the same way.

Between a hug and a recommendation, Merlin winks at him and mouths something Arthur maybe lip-reads as “Break a leg.”

And then it's on.

The lights in the Pacific Auditorium shine bright, so bright Arthur thinks they're blinding.

The arena hushes waiting for the first performer, though there's a subtle buzzing sound reverberating all around, as of subdued voices.

The ones murmuring animatedly are those who can't refrain from commenting or speculating; they are excited spectators who're readying themselves to witness this for the first time or the tenth. It doesn't really matter; it's the glory of the moment that does.

The audience itself contributes to create a special atmosphere that comes second to none.

There's a peculiar magic that colours the Olympic experience, one Arthur isn't able to name, but not many athletes get here at all and those who do fight for more than their name and reputation.

It's not even about patriotism really, and more about the once in a lifetime feel of the event.

If you win, you go down into the annals of sporting history as the best in your sport of choice. Years of training, commitment geared to get in top shape, hopes and dreams are all going to be rewarded or deemed as not good enough.

Sink or soar.

In fact, of the thirty skaters who started and took part in the short program only twenty-four remain.

They, Arthur included, have a little more than four minutes to prove their worth.

Arthur is not going to be the first to take the ice. Owain is.

Owain opens well, much better than he did last time around, but Arthur knows there's no way the man is going to win, not even if he out-performs the best of the best. Not with the score he obtained two days ago.

Arthur watches him, but lets himself be distracted by other things because Owain is no competitor today.

In the end Owain manages a dignified 68.00, which coupled with his previous short program marks should get him placed as sixteenth or seventeenth.

Mordred and his reinterpretation of Grieg's piano concerto come next and both are remarkable.

Mordred is a little bit of a snake charmer as well as an athlete. He's serious, dedicated, and his blue stare pierces the screen every time a camera closes up on his face. He pins his audience to their seats thanks to the mature pathos of his exhibition.

It's something Arthur wouldn't generally prefer, but even he has to recognise how good it is.

The young man has ambition. He skates clean, but he has a wrong take-off in the initial triple Lutz.

The rest of his execution is more than satisfying: his program includes a triple toe-loop combined with a double one, a spin fly and a solid double Axel. He takes home an 84.67.

Four other athletes follow after Mordred but Arthur is not interested. Having studied the short program rankings all morning, he knows that most of them lack either the ability or the score basis to pose a threat.

He pays attention again when Lancelot's turn comes.

He starts off with a nicely executed triple flip, triple toe-loop combination and the audience responds by clapping.

Technically, Lancelot is correct throughout, but his weakness is presentation this time around.

Arthur finds it strange since that hadn't been an issue during his short program, but it looks as if he's not authentically feeling the musical accompaniment. Maybe it was a bad choice on the part of his choreographer or today is not his day.

It happens more often than Arthur would care to admit.

However Lancelot is always good at connecting with the audience and the judges, and his suave personality makes up for the little spark that is missing.

That and the perfect mastery of all technical skills required. As a matter of fact Lancelot scores very high: if nobody does better, he'll fly back to France a gold medallist.

While Arthur warms up, four other routines are shown on screen, but Arthur gets back to his monitor only when Merlin's performance is announced.

It's strange but Arthur feels the same way he does when he's about to skate in a formal situation himself, blood roaring in his ears, a sensation of awed euphoria taking over.

He can only imagine that it's because he wants Merlin to show the world how good he is. Merlin's words from yesterday ring in his brain.

Merlin wants to win and Arthur does as well, but right now, maybe betraying his own DNA, Arthur roots for him with all he has.

As Merlin concentrates before beginning, Arthur finds himself draining a glass of water. Blasted dry mouth.

He takes a moment to note that Merlin's completely black outfit serves to highlight his frame in a way that makes Arthur crave another touch, when the music starts and Merlin comes to life.

He starts off his program with speed, power and total concentration.

He's all there, mind body and soul and Arthur has no doubt that Merlin is doing his best to win, as he promised he would. Gwen invented an astounding routine, and Arthur suspects Merlin is racking up points quickly.

When Merlin leaps off the ice, adopts a sitting position at the topmost height of his jump, and lands in the same seated position unruffled, Arthur slaps his hand on the bench he's been camping on out of elation.

He laughs when he finds Merlin's circular step is textbook material. He rejoices because Merlin's just a joy to contemplate.

Effortlessly and with consummate grace, Merlin completes a triple, plus double combination jump.

Faced with a perfect triple-triple combo, the audience stands up to cheer. Merlin begins a three-turn, stretching his right foot behind, reaches forward with his arms and leaps. He lands holding his left arm straight in front of him and the other one at his side.

The whole manoeuvre is brilliant but what warms Arthur's heart is the Axel, because Merlin has listened to his advice and and... He just has and Arthur's touched.

Performance concluded splendidly, Merlin gets cheers, an ovation and a score that makes him rank temporarily first.

Arthur jumps up and hoots, claps and laughs.

The elation however cools down when Arthur remembers there's an hour to go before he himself has to show up on the rink.

He paces up and down like a caged tiger the whole time, attempting to concentrate, stretching and waiting, waiting and stretching and thinking that he wants to go up to Merlin and tell him he's made him proud, like a knight on a battlefield of old.

In the end he doesn't, but only because father's popped up to remind him what his duty is.

The rest of the waiting parenthesis goes by in a haze till he's the one stepping onto the ice.

The music plays and he lets it all begin.

He knows it all by heart, his program: the steps sequences, the jumps, the edges. He knows it all.

But for once he doesn't tune all outside inputs out. He breathes it all in and makes himself participate, feel the crowd and the vibes they're sending him.

It makes all the difference in the world.

And if there's something Merlin's taught him, it's that he should enjoy what he's doing.

He's spent too much of his career visualising the moves in his mind's eye, making it all technical, that he's lost something, or maybe he's never found the something he should have had in the first place. That thing his mum knew about.

And when he begins to really enjoy himself, adrenaline rising, his body responds to perfection down to his very toes, so perfectly it feels as though the moves are ingrained, a part of him. He feels the power, the strength of his own muscles.

He lands them all and feels as alive as he never has.

It's inebriating. It's life-affirming. The speed, the energy, the choreography; they all come easily. The Salchow comes easy, and the quad toe, triple toe does as well. The crowd's screaming for him. That's his name on their lips.

And when he's near closing, he recollects Merlin's words. Be bold. Dare. And, yes, today he will.

As he begins his preparation spins, he plans it all out.

He decides to improvise. If he makes a mistake and loses, well, he'll take it with his head held high. He'll change his program and push the envelope.

He feels the sharp edge of his blade well under his foot and then he's jumping, giddily accelerating those spins as quickly as he can to get more power, more elevation. The muscles of his thighs and legs work to take him upwards. And he's soaring. He spins four times and a half and lands the impossible jump.

When it's over, he's breathing too fast, and scanning the auditorium.

He can't quite believe that the crowd loves him so, but he starts to accept it when he sees his score and realises that maybe today he's made a difference in the history of figure skating.

He bows and makes his way to the lockers.

Too soon the judging is in.

Father walks up and down, mirroring Arthur's previous nervousness. Arthur looks at his feet, now devoid of skates.

It's either him or Merlin and however this goes, whatever the result, he's happy. He just wishes they could both get it. If he loses, it's okay. He's done his best and this time nobody can tell him that he hasn't delivered. Not even father.

It's a little anticlimactic when all the scores are out and he finds that this is it.

It's his father who puts it into words.

Arthur's won gold at the Olympics.

 

****

 

He's on a podium. And it's a little bit of a blur.

He receives his medal and he smiles a little inanely for the press, looking suitably content. He is, if he thinks about it. It's just that it's not registering yet.

Merlin does the same since he won silver.

Meanwhile Arthur shakes hands, accepts compliments he's not understanding, and smiles widely, showing all his teeth.

He turns his head sideways when Merlin says, “See you in Turin then?”

Arthur hums and replies, “No, not really. I'm retiring.”

“What! You're the best!” Merlin squawks. “And what do you plan to do then?”

“I heard Guinevere's marrying Lancelot. He proposed when he heard he was third.”

Merlin quirks an eyebrow. “That's great,” he says, fiddling with his silver medal.

He looks strikingly sad to lose his coach, and Arthur's seen Lancelot and Gwen and he's heard her say she's moving to France with him, so he's pretty sure of his news. He shouldn't have broken it like this, considering he overheard things he wasn't meant to, when they probably intended to tell Merlin themselves in the first place, but it's not all bad.

Arthur has an offer. “So I was figuring, you're a coach short. I'll be your coach.”

When Merlin's head whips back in his direction and Arthur finds he's beaming, he can't be blamed if he does what he does next. On a podium, and for all the world to see, from China to Peru, he kisses Merlin.

 

The End


End file.
